Taking The Fall
by MargyW
Summary: Post-Reichenbach. John & Lestrade decide to investigate a cold case - what really happened to Sherlock Holmes. Mild violence.


An air of sadness surrounded the two men having a quiet pint in the living room of the small flat.

Lestrade put his beer down. "I'd happily shove Anderson off the top of the Yard if it would bring Sherlock back." He picked his beer up, hesitated, and set it down again. "You know, something was wrong with that suicide."

John's tone was bitter. "The whole thing was wrong. He was set up. He could have cleared his name. He lied to me, Greg." John took a swig of his beer. "Sherlock was genuine."

Lestrade nodded, only half listening. "I've seen a lot of suicides. They're rarely that flashy. That public. It doesn't feel like a suicide. It just feels damn wrong on so many levels."

John looked sharply at him. "What do you mean?"

"I don't think it was suicide."

"Murder? By who? Moriarty's body was found on the roof."

"A body we didn't get to examine."

"WHAT?"

"Scotland Yard wasn't allowed to touch it. Mycroft Holmes had it spirited away."

"He did WHAT?" John could barely believe his ears.

Lestrade shrugged. "I asked the Chief Super. He muttered something about terrorists and walked away. Something frightened him, and there's not much frightens senior cops."

John nodded, "Except very senior cops and government officials. And they don't get much more government or official than Mycroft." He scowled into his beer. "What has that umbrella wielding bastard done?"

"Probably too late to find out now, John. It's been two years."

"It's never too late, Greg. Cold case?"

Lestrade paused with the pint half way to his mouth. "You want us to work this as a case?"

"Why not? You're a Scotland Yard detective. I worked with Sherlock long enough to know how he did some things."

Lestrade smiled. "It would be good to find out what actually happened. I can get the records out of the system. There won't be much, but it will be a starting point."

*****

Lestrade sat down heavily in the armchair in John's dingy little flat. He stared at his friend, his face expressionless.

"The records are gone."

John stared at Lestrade in disbelief. "What?"

"Wiped from Scotland Yard's computers. A 'technical error' according to IT. Technical error my arse."

"I'm not liking this, Greg. I've been trying to get birth certificates and death certificates for Moriarty or Brooks. According to the records, no man of either name has ever existed. I've searched the internet. No hits on him at all. It's as if he never lived."

"That's not possible. How could no internet search find even a mention? No-one has the power to force search engines to…" Lestrade's voice trailed off.

John nodded. "I'm sensing the delicate touch of Mycroft Holmes. He hasn't wiped Sherlock from the record. I can still get hits on my friend. But nothing on his suicide. Even the newspaper archives are bare. All newspapers relating to that day have been destroyed. Completely. Another 'technical error'."

"Wonderful. How are we supposed to find out what happened?"

"I have a possible lead. After Sherlock's death," John still choked on the words, "I received an email from a friend of Moriarty's. He didn't give an address to contact him, but the email account wasn't a free one, so there would have to be details attached to it…"

Lestrade grinned. "Give me the email address. I'll get onto it."

John handed over a piece of paper. "It's not legal, Greg. If you get caught…"

"I won't get caught. I know a few people who can get this type of information. Nothing to really tie it to me." He looked at the email address John had written down. "What is the man's name?"

"Moran. Sebastian Moran."

Lestrade shook his head. "Hard to believe Moriarty had a friend."

"Everyone has friends, Greg. And I want to find out the truth about what happened to one of mine. My best friend." John turned away, emotion choking him.

Awkwardly, Lestrade patted his shoulder. "We'll find out, John. This email address you've given me is the best lead yet."

*****

John and Lestrade looked at the drunk slumped across the table from them. By their reckoning he was on about his third whiskey since they had arrived at Moran's house, and he hadn't been completely sober then.

"Jim was a friend of mine. Always wanted to be an actor. Had a stage name picked out. Rich Brooks. Reckoned it would look great on movie posters."

"What was wrong with his own name?"

"He thought Moriarty was too ordinary. Sounded like an accountant, not a movie star."

"What happened? Why did he….do what he did?" John asked.

"I don't know. Something went wrong. About two years before his death he came to me all excited. He had a new job. Not acting, but one where he would get to use his acting skills." Moran poured himself another whiskey. He waved the bottle at John and Lestrade in a gesture of invitation. Both men shook their heads. Moran put down the bottle and picked up the glass. He took a meditative sip.

"Jim said he couldn't give me any details. That it was all hush-hush. But I should watch the news. He was going to be big, but I shouldn't believe all I saw and read. It was all going to be make believe. A fairy tale."

Moran shook his head sadly. "But something changed. It stopped being make believe. He roped me in to help. First time was at a swimming pool…"

John's eyes widened. "You were one of the snipers?"

Moran nodded. "Yeah. I was a sniper in the army. The best." He looked at his hands. The shaking hands of a habitual drunkard. "All gone now," he said sadly.

He took another swig of his whiskey. "It got worse," Moran said morosely. "Just before it all happened, Jim called me. He needed my skills again. When he told me what to do, I didn't like it. Didn't want to do it. But he told me it was for the good of the country."

"What did he want you to do?" Lestrade's voice was gentle.

"He told me that if Sherlock Holmes did not jump from the roof I was to start killing people. Beginning with Dr Watson."

John's mouth dropped open in shock.

"I would have done it. But I didn't want to. And I really didn't want to kill the old lady."

"The old lady?" Lestrade had slipped effortlessly into gentle interrogation mode.

"The land lady. At Baker Street. Jim said she had to die too. A conspiracy, he said. But if the head of the conspiracy jumped, then the others were harmless without him. There were others. I can't remember…"

John's head was reeling. Sherlock hadn't committed suicide. He had sacrificed himself to save John and Mrs Hudson, and God knows who else. Lestrade perhaps? Or even Molly? He pushed his chair back and stood up. John stumbled away, his eyes clouding with tears.

Lestrade got to his feet. "Is there anything else you can tell us, Colonel Moran?"

Moran looked up from his glass. "Just before he went to London, when he told me about the new job, he made a strange little comment."

"Oh?"

"I asked again what he was going to be doing. He gave a little laugh and said "The name's Moriarty. Jim Moriarty." He did it in Sean Connery's voice. I think it was his way of saying he was going to be a spy."

"A spy." Lestrade's tone was flat.

"What else could he have been doing, Inspector Lestrade? All his talk about doing hush-hush things, and conspiracies against the government. What else could he have possibly been?"

Lestrade nodded and hurried outside to join John.

Back inside Moran picked up the whiskey bottle and drained it in one long swallow. Drunk and maudlin, he put his head in his hands and sobbed. "Why did you leave me, Jim? WHY?"

Outside John was leaning against the wall. His shoulders were shaking. As Lestrade watched, he pulled himself erect and turned to face him. John's eyes were red with weeping. Lestrade didn't comment.

"I need to have a word with Mycroft Holmes. Several words." John ground out the words from between clenched teeth.

"That's nice," a voice said chirpily. "Because Mr Holmes would also like a word. With you both."

The two men turned to look at the speaker. A car was parked at the kerb. Anthea stood beside it. She looked up from her phone, and smiled brightly.

John sighed. He gestured at the open car door. "After you, Greg."

"Is this wise?"

"Probably not. But certainly easier than banging on the door of the Diogenes Club screaming Mycroft's name."

"True."

Both men got into the car. Anthea slid in beside Lestrade, and closed the door. She nodded to the driver. The vehicle slipped away from the kerb and into the traffic.

*****

Standing by himself in the abandoned factory, Mycroft listened to the approaching footsteps. Watson and Lestrade. Anger resounded in every step. Watson was the angry one, Mycroft supposed, and he had a reason to be. This was not going to be an easy interview.

Mycroft watched the two men approach. Watson spotted him first, and his pace increased. His face was a mask of fury. No, this was definitely not going to be easy.

Mycroft drew a deep breath. "John. How pleasant to see you." He blinked. Mycroft found himself staring down the business end of John Watson's gun.

"I'd like to say the same Mycroft, but unfortunately I can't. Might have something to do with you being behind your brother's death."

Mycroft looked over John's shoulder at Lestrade. "Can't you control him?"

"Under the circumstances I feel like joining him."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "I am not responsible for Sherlock's death."

"No of course not. You just unleashed a maniac on him."

"I will plead guilty to that, but it isn't what you think."

"Trying to weasel out, Mycroft?"

Mycroft sighed. "I made a mistake, John. Sherlock needed something to occupy his mind, so I recruited Jim Moriarty to be a criminal mastermind. He was to keep Sherlock busy and out of my hair. But…"

"But?"

"I overlooked a small flaw in his personality."

"You mean you didn't spot the fact Jim Moriarty was stark raving bloody insane?"

"Quite." Mycroft gave John a pained look. "Can you please put that gun down?"

"No."

Mycroft sighed. "Moriarty became to believe he really was a criminal mastermind and began to fixate on Sherlock. Before I could pull him from duty he slipped his leash. Shook off his handler and disappeared. That's when he planned his little escapade to discredit Sherlock and eventually kill him."

The gun twitched.

"I warned Sherlock, John. Truly I did. But it became apparent that Moriarty was making plans to destroy everything that Sherlock cared about. Sherlock knew he needed to die."

Lestrade's voice came, cold and sarcastic, from behind John. "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few, or the one."

Mycroft shot him a withering look. "I had not picked you as a Star Trek fan, Inspector."

"We all have our vices."

Mycroft turned his attention back to John. "I did what I could to help, but Sherlock made the decision."

The gun twitched again. "I don't give a damn. It didn't have to happen and you know it. You could have rounded up Moran and any others Moriarty had in his pocket. You're as guilty of Sherlock's death as Moriarty was." Anger and hatred blazed in John's eyes. His finger tightened on the trigger.

A voice spoke softly from behind him.

"John."

John froze, his finger going limp on the trigger, and his eyes widening in shock, as he recognized the voice. "No. You're dead. I saw you jump!"

He swung around. Sherlock stood behind him. A small smile twitched at the corner of his friend's mouth. "You didn't see me land."

John shoved the gun in his pocket. He reached out and hugged Sherlock. Hard. After a moment's surprised hesitation, Sherlock hugged the smaller man back.

"Mycroft was supposed to tell you. I see his sense of timing is as impeccable as ever."

Mycroft shrugged. "Never seemed to find the time. Things to do. People to see."

John turned back to face the older Holmes brother. Mycroft had let him suffer through two years of hell believing his best friend was dead. The man was as totally uncaring as his brother had been when they'd first met.

Mycroft looked at John's face. He took an involuntary step backwards, but not fast enough. John Watson's punch landed with a sickening, but very satisfying, crunch.

Mycroft sprawled on the wet, dirty concrete. Sherlock hauled him to his feet. He smirked. "You need to get something on that eye, Mycroft, otherwise you won't be able to see. Still, it won't be the first time you've been one-eyed."

"Get out. "

The smirk spread into a grin. "With pleasure. So nice to see you again, dear brother. Let's not do this again soon." He swung around. "Coming, John?"

The two men walked out of the factory, Lestrade behind them.

Hand clasped to his throbbing eye, Mycroft watched them go. A wry smile spread across his face. He had missed his brother, and that irritating doctor. Pity Moriarty was dead, but, ah well, there would be other ways to keep his brother busy.

Outside in the sunlight John looked at Sherlock. "Where were you for two years?"

"Abroad. Stayed with Irene Adler for a time." Sherlock noted John's surprised look. "Yes, she isn't dead either. Spent some time in Tibet."

"On Mycroft's behalf no doubt."

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

John laughed. "Tibet is a trouble spot. Not the first choice to remain incognito for two years."

"True. It did make for a stimulating environment." Sherlock paused. He tried for a casual tone. "I hear there is a flat for rent. Perfectly suited for two confirmed bachelors."

"Oh? And where would that be?" John started to smile.

"221B Baker Street."

"Sounds perfect." John paused. "Does Mrs Hudson know we're coming."

"She said tea was at four and she would have ginger biscuits."

John began to laugh. "It's good to have you back, Sherlock."

"It's good to be back, John. Shall we go home?"

John nodded and the two men walked away into the afternoon sun.

Lestrade watched them go. A warm smile spread across his face. They were back in harness. Both men stopped, talked, and turned around.

Sherlock called out, "Are you coming, Lestrade? I understand there are enough ginger biscuits for three."

Grinning like a loon, Greg Lestrade ran to catch up with his friends.


End file.
